


Carry Me, Carapace

by gimmeshellder



Series: Volley and Pearl, but like, not necessarily together [3]
Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: F/F, Gem Headcanons, Google Doc within, Open Relationships, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Second Person, Pearl Fucks, Polyamory, bughugging and bone collecting, crying during sex but like it's happy crying (mostly), second base on the beach not recommended unless you can control sand, stone top Pearl... ish, typical pearl baggage applies, yeah sorry lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:33:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27195853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gimmeshellder/pseuds/gimmeshellder
Summary: Pearl needs things a little different than you do. And you need Pearl, so... it's an easy choice.
Relationships: Pearl/Pink Diamond's Pearl (Steven Universe), Pearl/Pink Diamond’s Original Pearl | Volleyball
Series: Volley and Pearl, but like, not necessarily together [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1699654
Comments: 35
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HUGE THANKS to [ a_big_apple ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_big_apple/) for beta!
> 
> This can probably be read as a standalone, but would make more sense after [Darling, What Holds You Down?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23465881) (and subsequently [In-Bounds and Out](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21793237) before that)... but like, you can also probably just jump in? probably??? 
> 
> Heads-up for my personal pearl physio/Era 1 and 2 headcanons!!

I try not to do this but I am neither good at computer nor an AO3 html whisperer, sorry lads

[Check out the Google doc here!](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1i_i6N80Oq4yr2D2PyMVNb3AGGMpXz2cCxb31PqtDDD8/edit?usp=sharing)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIIIIG THANKS to [ a_big_apple ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_big_apple/) and [ Florentine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Florentine/pseuds/Florentine) for fabulous beta-ing! Also big thanks to The Reef discord server for plentiful idea jamming that led to the fun _central_ conflict of this fic... in part 3. Part 4 will be prologuey. hopefully that's it. please god
> 
> Headsup also that this fic is SFW from hereon -- if you're sticking around for more spicey it's all confined to ch1, soz m8

(goooooorgeous art from [Space_Rock_Enby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Space_Rock_Enby/pseuds/Space_Rock_Enby), also on tumblr at [Grey-Pearls-Reef!)](https://grey-pearls-reef.tumblr.com/)

The door squeaks open. It pulls you out of the hazy space of the window of the washing machine. One of the peridots. You recognize her -- the rounder one from the end of the hall, usually chatting with someone in her doorway, comparing sprocket wrenches. She freezes when she sees you, one lick of her hair loose at the temple.

“Try later,” you mumble. You stare back into the window. The sheets are still dry and idle. “Nothing in here works right.”

One of the drawbacks. Of living here. Most every washer and dryer has _some_ kind of part missing (that sometimes makes its way back). And this one won’t start, no matter how many half-hearted shakes or kicks. But it’s too much energy to unload and try another one.

So, you... sit. Are sitting. You don’t have to stand if you don’t want to.

The door squeaks again. Shut, this time. The peridot gone without a word. That's fine. You wish she hadn’t come by, though. It's harder to find that hazy space. Now you can _see_ the sheets. You can see where you sweated on them. You can feel the furry, fussy patch on your cheek where the salt ran, over and over.

 _Ugh._ Why does crying come easier than anything else.

You pull your knees in tighter. But you don’t hide in them. The dryer behind you _clunks_ against the back of your head as you tip back to blink at the ceiling. There are dainty brown ribs of water stains skirting the tiles. Like one of your paintings. The lines curve lush up at the top, darkly regal, like _Lucanus placidus._

You should call it a stag beetle.

No! No, you shouldn’t! You will call it _Lucanus placidus,_ or billywitch, and oak-ox or, or -- and _horse pincher_ \-- you can call it whatever the hell you want -- whatever feels right to you! You can -- you get to --

Dammit. You’re crying again.

You’re still crying (quiet, not even _really crying-_ crying, just breathing heavy) when the door squeaks open again. Ugh. Maybe you can lock it. You huff, wiping your face, “Come back _later_ , nothing in here wo--”

It’s the same peridot. She avoids your eye completely, and darts for the line of washers. The farthest one jingle-jostles like a piggybank as she grunts, and clambers between its back and the wall. She gets stuck behind the middlest (muttering, tongue-clucking, until something goes _pop_ ) -- but then makes it through the obstacle course of them all, all the way to the one with your sheets.

It rocks. And rocks, again. Some clangs, and one tickling blue spark shoots up, and -- yes -- the sticky gumdrop of the _Service ready!_ light pinks on. The washer’s motor coos as power pours back. When the peridot emerges from the end of the row again, her hair is a massacre: she swipes at it distractedly to smooth it back to a round pouf. And elbow-scrubs at a smudge of grease on her cheek (it doesn’t go anywhere).

"We borrow the parts in here sometimes." She coughs into her hand. Just a glance to meet your eye. “They’re, um, good in a pinch.”

Oh. You blink. ( _Service ready!)_ Then, you can… yeah. “Thank you.”

She nods.

You shuffle your legs until your feet can brace under you. Stiff. You reach to the washer just as the peridot does.

“I can press the --”

“I got it,” you mumble. You poke the settings on autopilot. Load size, temperature, cycle level. And hit ‘start.’ The washer hisses as the water trickles into the drum, creeping up over your sheets. They muddy down with the weight. You hope you added enough soap.

It’s soothing to watch. When you look down again, the peridot hasn’t left. She’s holding out a handkerchief.

“It’s a clean one. For your, um,” her mouth scrinches as she mimes wiping her face, “leakage.”

… you take it. Your cheek is irritated from all the scrubbing as it is, and the handkerchief’s pretty funky, actually. But you use the cleanest corner. “Thank you.”

“No problemo.” She takes it back (phew), and tucks it into her apron. But she still doesn’t leave.

Should _you_ leave? Maybe there’s some other part she’s hunting down. But Peridot doesn’t move to any machine. She doesn’t look at you, either. She cants her weight from one foot to the other, scanning around the room. Like she’s waiting for something.

You feel heavy again. So you sink back to your seat, on the floor, against the dryer. If you’re in her way, well. It’s her job to say so. But you worry she’s going to ask _Is everything okay?_ because then yeah you probably will have to leave.

Peridot doesn’t sit. Instead she turns to face you again, still watching a crack in the floor, hands clasped at her waist. And clears her throat, and, “Cross-gem dormitory intermixing is subject to resident decision.”

“... what?”

 _Now_ she looks right at you. All peridots have green eyes, but there’s a browner shade to hers you can’t see from two doors down. “Previously disadvantaged gems, including peridots, can elect to deny other gems access as needed from their residence halls. As long as there isn’t undue burden or resulting structural inaccess, or… or anything.” Her mouth scrinches at the corner again. She itches it with her wrist, and skitters a glance back at your sheets. “We _can._ ”

The washer hisssssssses. Still filling.

Muscles yank your face in a slow blink. Is she... saying she can kick you out? Make you leave? Whenever they want. Yeah. Crying in their laundry room, using up their spare parts. Yeah… fair, you guess. Fine. With everthing else in you, now, it barely pings. You can’t summon any care. “Okay.”

The peridot perks up so sharp a pocket of hair-frizz springs loose again. “‘Okay’?”

“Let me finish laundry first.” Your lips heavy around the mumble. The drum still filling. At least let you leave with clean sheets.

“Laundry…” You feel her squint whiz like a mosquito past your cheek. Then Peridot makes a _huh!_ and her head shakes, three times, left-right. “Oh, no no no -- you misunderstand.”

“Misunderstand what,” you sigh.

“The _other_ pearl.” That brings you back. She shifts her weight under your stare. “We don’t _have_ to let her in.”

... right. Right, right right. You don’t exactly blend. At least one other gem must have seen you come in together. Peridot wades into some “recently tabled but potentially applicable language” from a recent Little Homeworld representative caucus about how the bylaws prevent any degree of a figure’s cultural influence to be leveraged as blah blah blah blah blah blah-- “It’s not like that,” you force through edgewise.

She frowns. When she slips her hands into her apron pockets, something crinkles. “Did she harm you?”

“No.” No. You bring your fingertips to your temple and press. Your neck doesn’t want to hold. “It’s not like that.”

“We heard fighting,” she says quietly.

Oh. Then they must have… oops. But peridots don’t seem to have a radar for that kind of thing? Mostly? “That… um. We weren’t fighting.” You don’t really have the energy to be embarrassed. “We were doing... other stuff.”

“Oh -- relax. We’re _well_ aware of organic-style fusion.” Peridot fights off an eyeroll by crossing her arms over her chest. But then she softens, watching you sideways. “... we heard fighting _after._ Right before she ran out.”

The shouting. The throw. Now shame _does_ crawl up your throat. Dammit. How thin are the stupid walls in here?

“Was she unkind to you?”

... you don’t know. No? What even happened? It just hurt. You feel a frown pulling. Staring into the washer. It irritates the raw skin on your cheek.

“... did she say something cruel?”

_That’s awful._

“I don’t know.” Your knees make it a muddy mumble.

The wash finishes filling. The two of you watch as the cycle clunks on, hissing-turned-growling, and the drum begins to whirl. The sheets churn round.

The peridot clears her throat. She takes a seat on the floor, too, well out of reach, and watches the washer with you.

The drum’s on a few dozen rotations when she hugs her knees, too.

“In late Era 1,” she clears her throat again, “new mandatory peridot protocols were introduced concerning labor distribution. Over 70% of peridots were slated to more individualized, long-term assignments, such as oversight of the newly developed kindergartens. We were consistently infighting, see,” she grins a little, “and impacting projected timelines. The minority were allowed to continue with consolidation tasks or weapons development like always, but in _muuuch_ smaller teams. Two or three were deemed sufficient support in a project that formerly had up to a _dozen_. Quite a learning curve...” She makes a nasally little sigh and picks grime from her sleeve. “Four is typically the upper limit for even easygoing peridots.”

“... what if there’s more?”

“Productivity plummets. When there’s too many of us with a common task, we rarely come to a consensus on how to proceed. Peridots are some of the _most_ productive and hard-working gems, but we’re also… very opinionated.” She taps the side of her temple. If you’re not imagining things, there’s a hint of pride. “As a result, our coordinated efforts suffer from diminishing returns.”

"But you all live _here_. There's…" You frown. How many of them?

"We're cooperative, sure. _Not_ necessarily collaborative." She nods to herself two, three times. "We work on projects in our own cohorts, _or_ on our own, and mind our business." Peridot stops mid-nod, blinking furiously. "... uh, well. Usually."

Okay. That’s worth a tiny smile.

“It may be be the case there is little published data on the subject. But are pearls similar?”

“... similar how?”

“Do pearls suffer from diminishing returns?”

 _Cla-clunk:_ the washer’s drum kips, mid-rhythm. _Clunk._ A missing part maybe.

You don’t know. You don’t know the answer to that. No one does, right? Pearls were never mixed with pearls. Blue and Yellow, the exception that proved the rule. The closest you ever came to others on your own was in the early hours of development, laid quiet, and still, with your batchmates, in Shell, curled little and pretty as bumblebee shrimp. You were the only one deemed serviceable and spared recycling. “How would I know?" Scraped dry. You swallow. Peridot says nothing. She doesn't need to. It's right there on her face.

"We can keep her out if she comes by," she says, quiet.

Maybe you and Pearl are just meant like this. Far apart. Moving about in parallel, never touching. It only hurts you both. You’ll circle like satellites until one of you stops.

"If she comes back, should we tell her to buzz off?"

You want Pearl more than anything. "Yes." Maybe more than you want you. "I don't know."

"Inconclusive.” Peridot nods. Once, slow. “That's normal. You know, we discuss a number of inter-gem conflicts in the representative caucus… "

Normal. Just normal, for you. Get used to it. You clamber to your feet stiffly.

“-- _intra-_ gem conflict, on the other hand, needs… uh? Oh… your wash is still going,” she says. You don’t turn.

The door closes behind you. The fairylights are still on. They wink at you behind your waterfall curtains, along the walls, near the stripped bed.

You drift over to the craft table. The pine needle bracelet sits curled in the corner. You finished three segments of tight, woven fibers, ready for another binding. You pick it up: sift through the undone end with a fingertip, through the bristles. And you pinch one, and pull. It snicks free from the binding and grazes your knee on the way down to the floor.

You pinch one and pull. And another. It feels good. You think.

The boxes stacked on top of each other. The top one is where you squirrel away your glossy buttons, nichey bottle caps, fishing lures (no hooks). Other stuff. It all makes a gristly rattle when you shift it aside, and let it spill over the table. The box underneath’s lid is loose -- it has the leather burner you’ve been working up the nerve to learn to use. And some of the beetle etchings you’ve done on wood, hand aching from precision.

… you set that one aside more gently. Even if its bottom sits lopsided on a bottle cap.

You look back to the stack: the next box holds the leftover cowrie shells. The ones that didn’t fit. Wrong shape. Wrong color. Wrong, wrong.

Your fingers hook beneath the table’s lip and _yank_ \-- and _shove --_ and the entire thing topples, all the boxes and pages and projects and pieces -- leather burner, too -- it all scatters across your floor like some garbage seedpod.

It feels good. To do that. The impact scratches an itch in you. But cold rushes in right after. And then it goes away.

The fabric of the mattress cover feels strange. When you curl up in the middle it gums at your skin and makes you shiver, like a rap on the funny bone. Pearl helped you pull the fitted sheet on when you moved in. You’ve figured it out on your own months since. Chasing the corners down, one at a time.

You wait for it: another crying jag. You wait for the bruisey heat to bubble up like a barked shin and the sticking tears, and the noises. You _hate_ the noises. You wait for it to weigh you down all over again like the sheets in the wash.

You wait.

… you do. But nothing arrives. You’re emptied out of it. Like fruit eaten up from the inside, scraped clean along the walls. You might echo like a gourd with one good rap.

You lay there curled like a question mark for so long the aromatherapy mini-fountain _clicks_ \-- settling into its evening charging mode. It’s still evening. Night. The dorm rings with rare, dark quiet. Down the hall, your wash must be on the verge of mildew.

You tuck -- you curl, to your other side, to watch the fountain. Pearl will be back at hers by now. Or the forge. Shaking her head, pacing in circles, talking herself up into a froth. Tsking to Bismuth behind her hand that _It’s just not worth it._ Or maybe a back-up human with nothing to do.

Easier. Any of them. So, so much easier for her.

“Diminishing returns.” You try it. The shape. The words are all soft dips and hills of _mm’_ s and _nn_ ’s and _shh_ , studded with little spurs of hard stops. It _does_ fit: it sounds like you both. Like pushpins slid into soft spots.

 _Diminishing returns._ A gulf between you as cold and vast as the floor of the Diamond court, no matter how tightly she holds your hand.

Your hand. It reaches up before you ask: to trace the tideline of your hair. The messy, simple bun. Flyaway wisps. Just sketching touch along. You cup your fingers tender as a vowel along the back of your neck, over the downy parts, the sensitive skin -- scrape just enough to scratch. It feels nice. It could feel better. To be touched right now. Just another safe body, here with you, quiet in the light. It would be…

The mattress frame snickers as you bolt upright. The fountain clicks on again, and whirrs.

“You told her _what?_ ” Bismuth’s voice crackle-stresses through the speaker. And she sighs, that -- the heavy one, the big-setback-in-the-project one, where she reaches up to pinch the bridge of her nose. "Pearl…"

“I couldn’t say _yes._ ” Her teeth pinch tight on each word. She needs to enunciate clearly into the cellular phone with the dull cannonade of the fountains in the room. It helps: the white noise. Something to brace against as she sifts through her armory. Something for her hands. “That's so… She’s been doing so _well_ lately _,_ and that…” It’s set her back. Back, back. “What was I meant to say?”

"Not _that_. I… hang on." Bismuth pulls her mouth from the receiver -- some muttered message to the agates. Pearl catches some snatch of _‘should hold it fine for awhile’_ before a door clapping shut. When Bismuth speaks again, there’s no background static. “I… Pearl.” A deep sigh. This one starts in her boots. “She was trusting you. She was _vulnerable_.”

A little spark in her throat. “You think I don't know that?”

“No, not like… I mean yeah, that too, but…” There’s a thick rustle as she Bismuth swipes one heavy hand over her face, like she’s trying to clear it. But the frown in her voice remains. “Pearl, that hits like… like _rejection_. Like rejecting _her._ ”

“I wasn’t!” She nearly drops the katana in hand. “That -- of course not. I _wasn’t._ ”

“I know. _I know._ But that’s not what she heard.” Bismuth takes in air. One long, slow drag. Then lets it out again. “You said _that’s_ awful. But she heard _you’re_ awful.”

Volley’s just... been doing so _well_ , lately. Her own interests, her own schedule and projects -- even her choice of residence hall. As much as Pearl would like for the two to talk more, she can’t ignore the budding independence inherent in Volley declining Bismuth’s help.

But all her hard work could be washed away. With ease.

Pearl didn’t look all that closely, did she? At the time. No. She just… stood, and began thinking. Evaluating. Yes; a problem to be solved. Pearl simply wanted to pull her back from that precipice. But Volley must have sat, watching her, stinging hot from the seeming repudiation.

“... I tried. I tried to explain.” Volley offered to _leave._ Like… like a pearl dismissed. And wasn’t _that_ its own little panic, another cause of concern. And then the _flash,_ the…

Pearl sags at the shoulders. She nearly bumps her brow against the suit of platemail. “Bis, I can't do this.” Muffled numb behind her hand. “I'm ruining it.” Volley’s never raised her voice in anger. Not like this. “I’m… I can’t…”

_I can't protect her like she needs._

“Hey, hey. Slow down, boss. You hurt her feelings. And she threw something… which we gotta work on... but it'll all fit. Okay?” There’s a slow, gentle sound as Bismuth wets her lips. “Just need a little cool-down.” She goes quiet a moment. “You’re in your room, right?”

… Pearl clears the emotion from her throat. “Yes.”

“Stay there. I’m not far from the ‘dot dorm.” Something shifts -- clatters. Gathering her materials, likely. “I’ll go try to…” Pauses. Thinking. “I talked her down pretty good last time, yeah? Let me try for two."

Why isn’t Pearl better at this? Why is it on Bismuth to step in? She doesn’t even _know_ all the… she lacks the context. Most of it, at least. Grief tangs in the back of her mouth and Pearl grits against it. Like some violent chemical reaction between them, even when the misstep seems slight.

“Pearl?” Bismuth pulls her back. “That sound okay?”

“Yes. Yes…” She digs her thumb along the lip of the gorget. The cold line of it is grounding. “Thank you.”

“Alright. Call you later.” She puffs a laugh. “Try not to pace some new irrigation.”

The smile bullies its way out. Impossible not to, with Bis. “I love you.”

Her shy grin warms through the receiver, right to Pearl’s gem. “... love you, too.”

Then the line goes cool. Pearl disconnects.

She gave in too soon. To Volley. She's… she’s back to service thinking. Or something close to it. Dangerously close.

And it hurt her -- it _hurt_ her. For Pearl to pull her back from that edge: back from falling into one of the many many pits on the path to growth. To becoming her own. Or another pit, or another pit. Decades of pits, centuries, millennia, miles of pits -- pits inside of pits -- pits stacked within each other in endless tiers like some asymptotic wedding cake -- pits Pearl’s been pushed into, pits she’s leapt into herself, pits that look like targets, like bullseyes, like oases, pits deep enough to eat the light, deep enough to eat thought, pits lined with lush red carpets and fringed with signs of tantalizing neon, pits that feel safe at last to curl up within for years and years until waking with a start to recognize that it is a pit -- pits with well-oiled sides and their own gravity well -- overcoming through sheer force of will alone some once-thought insurmountable peak, and to relish in the triumph, only to tumble into the pit at its summit.

All of it. All the wasted time, the bitter exhaustion. She should be spared that.

Pearl jumps when her phone rings. Too quickly. She’s called too quickly. Bismuth would have only just gotten to the dormitory. Pearl accepts with such speed that she nearly drops the phone into the water. “What happened?”

“... Pearl,” her insides lurch at her tone, “she’s gone.”

Her eyes squeeze shut tight. White dots form behind her eyelids. “What do you mean?”

_What else could she mean?_

“She’s… she left.” Bismuth’s voice drops. “And her room’s kind of trashed. But no one… it’s not like someone _else_ came in.” She gutters her throat. A draft wheezes along her receiver, like she’s casting around the room for answers. “... okay. Alright. Listen. Come on over here and we can…”

A chorus of nasally voices flashes but then goes foggy (Bis must have muffled the receiver) -- distracted, cumulus noise -- Bis fades back in with ‘ _alright, alright!’_ and a sigh.

“... on second thought... better stay put for now. Okay?” Her scowl is audible. “I’m gonna talk with a couple to see if they have… you know. If she said anything to them.”

She’s gone. Gone _again._ Pearl chased her off _again._ The phone lists low on her cheek; Bismuth’s voice goes tinny as a result.

“Don’t go anywhere, okay? We’ll look together.”

“Bismuth.” Just a whisper. Nearly buried under the fountain sound.

“ _Don’t_ go anywhere,” pleading now. “It’ll all work out.” But she says it like she’s squinting into too-bright light.

They never lock the door. You ease it shut behind you, and stand in the dark. You wait for sound. No Steven. No Amethyst, no Garnet. Pearl with Bismuth. Pearl will always have Bismuth.

Anger tries to trickle to your fist. But leaks away. You’re too tired.

Some sand tracked in behind you. It whisper-scrapes against the hardwood as you step past the sofa (where Pearl held you and read) and the kitchen table (where Pearl made you cinnamon tea) over the bone-cool flat of the warp pad (where Pearl took you to the sky arena, the mountains, the movies).

You stop before the door. With all their different spaces, each gem in each ray, like starfish arms. Amethyst, Garnet, Pearl, and Rose Quartz.

… Steven’s, now. You guess. Not that he wants much to do with it. Pearl’s told you he can get in just fine, when he wants to, ( _It’s the same gem, after all.)_ Even if not the same Gem.

So... so.

It... stands to reason.

You wet your lips. Your shoulders square. And you pool yourself, down, to the seed of your gem, and you reach towards the door: _Open._

You did for years and years. Even inexpertly. Even too slow when opening chambers, or gates or shuttles or passageways to court, even too forgetful for the winding grooves and channels of ceremony. But it never _mattered,_ you were her keys. And her lockbox, and diary, her secret reprieve -- you kept it all -- what was hers was _yours_ because you were hers. But no one ever saw that she was yours, too.

_Open._

The star in the door sits, dead and gray. Uninterested in your signal. Nothing reaches back to you.

You swallow. Your tongue is thick, all the way down your throat. _Open. Open._ The star blurs as your eye wells.

_Open. Access. Access._

“Please,” you whisper. “Please.” _Let me see her._

You feel the _click_ of connection before seeing -- a warm tug behind your gem, like a taken hand, and the gem at the top of the star in the door springs bright and sharp and sudden as a cramp ( _Service ready!)_ \-- the star shrinks and splits like a windmill, kaleidoscoped open. The wash of amniotic pink dazzles so ferocious in the dark that your vision bubbles with spurs.

You scrub your fist into your eye and twist -- another tear or two, sure, but -- oh, but it _worked._ Sweet-smelling, and warm, a draft brushes along and around you like an embrace. So _warm_. It shapes soft along your cheek where the skin is raw. You have to shield your face to peer inside, and step --

“You shouldn’t.”

Garnet. She is stock still by the counter. She must have watched you come in. The sundown lighting casts her tall, taller than usual: all long, ghost-story shadows in the corner of the house.

You only flinched a little. Just a little. You swallow down the tack of panic in your throat. “... why not?”

The refrigerator hummmmmmmms in the fringe and the Room chitters its own little song, too: whatever pulse runs through the temple, through the space. You can hear it even over the rabbit-thump of blood in your neck.

You waver. Garnet watches.

You take another step. Garnet doesn’t move. You could reach out and hook your fingers along the threshold, apple-warm. “You’re not gonna stop me?”

She says nothing. Just watches you. Like always. Neutral as meditation class, so cool behind her damned _glasses_ , giving nothing away. As inert and unhelpful as the earlier star in the door.

A thought comes; your eye narrows. “ _You_ can just send _Steven_ in.”

She says nothing.

“Can’t you? You can, can’t you?” _No. No._ That ruins everything. Your weight shifts like a stamped foot. Even as your voice shivers on the syllables. “Say something.”

“... I’m not sure he’ll be able to find you.”

You swallow.

Good. That’s… that’s good.

You turn back. The light’s adjusted now: you can make out the soft shapes of clouds in the Room. They valley and curve, like a cupped hand.

“You shouldn’t.”

“ _Why not?_ ” fizzles out a hiss, hot over your shoulder.

“You might not come out again.”

Wood creaks. But no one at the door. Nothing that… you haven’t shifted on the floor. Oh, but. But Garnet has a pincergrip on the counter. Dimpling the wood.

The refrigerator hummmmmmms. The Room, too.

Is that so bad, though? Never coming out? Is it? You don’t _fit_ here. You still don’t. You deserve someplace you can.

“Give Pearl the chance to apologize.” The creaking gives way to spidery crackles: teensy splinters spring up around Garnet’s grip. “You’re precious to her.”

Something flutters in your chest. Low heat wells up against it. _No,_ dammit. You won’t cry here. Not now. “She’ll be fine.”

“She never meant to be unkind to you.”

Then it’s swallowed up again: scalded and purpling, a teething thicket in your chest. You snap, “Who does?” and pull yourself past, into the room, into the light, as the threshold vanishes behind you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m normally super picky about sticking to one perspective in my own stuff (it's fine when other folks do it, but jumping around to different brains feels like I'm cheating almost) but pearl’s convo with bismuth and reflection felt critical… thats the only time it’ll happen for this fic tho. I also gave her a lot more figurative language than i normally try to, whoopsies!! We can blame volley’s influence 
> 
> The section on pits is a direct pull from [ Anne Boyer’s 'What Resembles The Grave But Isn't'!](https://billmoyers.com/story/poetry-month-what-resembles-the-grave-but-isnt/) I try not to borrow stuff but it’s entirely too beautiful-exhausting-comforting in a very pearl way and gets to the heart of her thought process during the argument (even if Pearl couldn’t articulate it herself). 
> 
> All peridots are aspec and just... so, so less than impressed
> 
> Laundry room peridot goes by Squat (only by the dorm, where there’s lots of riffing on “Oh, you don’t know _squat_ ”), is very involved in grassroots politics and organizing, secretly loves rube-goldberg machines and has watched every episode of the SU equivalent of the Simpsons. She's a sweetie

**Author's Note:**

> [ optional listening!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Se6-q57xJCg)
> 
> _Chrysochus auratus_ is also called the dogbane beetle!!! They're very pretty
> 
> Volley probably texts with hella emojis but tries to rein them in when texting Pearl... also tries to rein in the dead bug collecting... actually there's a lot she's trying to keep off the radar.... girl...


End file.
